terms of surrender
by Nygmatech
Summary: They've been fighting for so long they're on a first name basis. The next step from there is anybody's clue. Luthor/Superman, slash


**(A/N: I swear this is definitely _not_ written in the Smallville universe. I just like Lex's affinity for purple.**

**And Lex somehow knows Clark's identity; imagine that as you will. I was just lazy and did it for simplicity's sake.)**

terms of surrender

Lex Luthor could think of several places he wanted Superman (preferably chained up or cemented to the floor with Kryptonite-infused glue), and floating a few inches above the balcony of his penthouse, lecturing his ear off, was not one of them.

"—no respect for human lives-"

"You killed _seventeen of my workers_ when you smashed the building," Luthor pointed out mildly, a quirk of his auburn eyebrows as he sipped at the glass of whiskey in his hand.

"—black market, unethical laboratory experiments!-"

"And injured another twenty," Luthor added, the reproachful and slightly vindictive note in his voice easily matched to Superman's self-righteousness.

"—back alley Kryptonite deals!-"

"Millions of dollars in repair," he countered, finally meeting Superman's eyes in an even, challenging stare, when Superman finished in _the_ most cliché and disgustingly heroic way possible:

"You'll never get away with this, Luthor!"

And there really wasn't anything he could say to the sheer stupidity of that statement, so Luthor just sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, abandoning the whiskey glass on the balcony railing. "That's it. I'm going to bed. And when I wake up, this whole day will have been a horribly cliché dream and I won't have to explain to Dr. Peacock exactly why he has to start two years of research over again from scratch."

He was mostly in the doorway when Superman, invariably, wavered a little behind him, and started again (disapprovingly, albeit quieter):

"Lex-"

"Good _night_, Clark."

And slamming the balcony doors vindictively in Superman's shocked and angry face really shouldn't have felt as good as it did, but these days, Luthor would take his small victories where he could get them.

* * *

"Luthor! I'll never let you get away with this!"

"Is that your _catch phrase_ now?" was Luthor's bitter retort, and he didn't even look up from the stack of files he was reading intently, never mind the fact that he was sitting in his personal office, minding his own business, and doing Completely Legal Things.

Superman just fixed Luthor with a piercingly blue, disapproving stare, and Luthor sighed and looked up, irritatedly removing the reading glasses from over his own eyes—bright green, the exact same shade as the Kryptonite ring he's wearing on his wedding finger.

"Listen, I just want visitation rights-" Luthor started, imploringly, but Superman cut him off, voice thunderous.

"I will not have you poisoning Superboy's mind with your influence!"

Luthor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and counting slowly to ten under his breath.

"I am not going to try and turn _Conner_ evil. He's free to make his own choices. I just want to see _my son_, goddammit, Clark! _Our_ son!"

Superman only continued to stare at him in extreme suspicion and distrust.

"Weekends," Luthor compromised, somewhat desperately. "You can have him for holidays and the rest of the week! And if he doesn't want to see me, he's free to go home."

He raised his head, green boring into blue.

"I grew up with a father who hated me and no mother. At least let me give him the chance to have what I didn't. A family, Clark."

And as soon as he had come, Superman was gone again, his balcony curtains fluttering lightly, a red and blue streak in the sky over Metropolis.

Luthor rests his head on his desk and wishes it would all go away.

* * *

As it stands, he has no trouble winning visitation rights, as strange as the case is to the judge—the Justice League sits behind Superman and Superboy, everyone in full costume with the studious omission of real names, as Luthor's lawyer works his magic.

* * *

"Don't worry," Luthor says, his smile reassuring as he shakes Conner's hand firmly the very next morning. They're standing in front of LexCorp Towers, Clark, Conner, and Lex—for the first time they're all out of costume, absent of red and blue spandex and sigils of the House of El. Luthor's jacket is gone and his sleeves are rolled up, in some attempt to look a tad friendlier. He winks. "I'm the cool parent."

Conner doesn't look exactly mollified at that, but that's alright. They have to learn to trust each other at some point.

* * *

But along with Conner, comes Clark, whether Luthor likes it or not—though secretly he fears he does. A nod and a smile to Clark as he drops Conner off on Friday afternoons, a shared cup of coffee in Clark's tiny kitchen when Luthor brings their son back Monday mornings before school.

Somewhere along the line, maybe, Luthor's afraid he's started to grow fond of him. They're treading on thin ice here, the dangerous territory between hating and… well.

He will, however, admit that it's still very irritating when he can sense Superman's presence on the balcony, watching him, those weekends in the penthouse with Conner. But when he turns around, there's always nothing, just a faint fluttering of curtains and the empty space beyond.

They're different, when they're together like this, though. Superman and Lex Luthor, in costume—just a simple abduction, and here Superman is flying him back to the balcony doors of his penthouse, a little worse for the wear but content with the fact that they can work together just this once.

* * *

Superman always comes to the rescue, when it's _Luthor_ in danger, no matter how hypocritical that may seem. He supposes it says something about them—they hate each other, but can't live without each other, and they're going to do this _forever_, because this game wouldn't be the same without either of them. They're too invested in each other for that.

Dangerous waters.

"You need to be more careful," Superman says, loud and commanding and he _looks_ at Luthor—

"I don't need to," Luthor only says, coldly, and he buttons his cuffs. "That's how we work, isn't it?"

"_Lex_, don't-"

"Shut _up_, Clark!"

He thinks of his son, asleep inside. Of Monday morning spent drinking coffee in Clark's apartment. Of how his son deserves to have the family _he_ didn't.

Superman's hands close around Luthor's wrists, pinning him there against the French glass doors, and Superman brings his face a little too close, here, their noses brushing for a moment as he leans in.

Luthor pours all of his anger and frustration and helplessness into the kiss, because he _needs_ Clark like he needs _air_, and—

_Oh._

He gets it now.

"Clark… my bed. _Now._"

The buttons fly off Luthor's $2000 lavender silk shirt under Clark's hands, as he's roughly shoved back into the penthouse, and Luthor _rips_ off Superman's cape; even in this, they're fighting, and they're leaving a telltale trail of destruction and ruined clothes behind them.

But… at the same time, Luthor knows Clark is being careful not to hurt him, not to bruise him _too_ much, even as they collide with his bedroom door. And Luthor, for the first time in years, slides the Kryptonite ring off his finger, discarding it clear across the hall.

He doesn't need it any more. He'll have time to bring the Man of Steel to his knees later, in any case.

* * *

"Good morning, Clark."

Luthor is laid out comfortably on the bed when Clark wakes up, freshly showered and clad in a plum silk dressing gown, simply observing Clark with an undeniably fond expression on his face.

This is as relaxed as Clark's ever seen him.

"Hi," he says, eloquently, a lopsided grin that's probably too wide and more than a little dorky, but it makes the skin around Lex's eyes crinkle up in a smile, so that's good enough for Clark.

"Hi to you too, Clark," Luthor says back, his tone conveying only amusement, but his eyes take on a decidedly evil glint. "You know, if we woke Conner up last night I think I might have to kill you. Destroy the evidence, you know."

Clark groans, stuffing his face back in the pillow. "Shut up. Oh god, Lex, don't even talk about that."

He only hears a surprised laugh from the other side of the bed, Luthor's hand shooting out to ruffle his hair in an affectionate gesture.

"Come on, it's almost ten. He's going to be up soon, you should at least _try_ to make yourself presentable for breakfast, _Superman._ You can use my shower."

Clark heaves a dramatic sigh, still making no effort to get up. "What am I supposed to wash my hair with?"

"Oh, I don't know, Clark. I do _own_ shampoo, you know."

"For _what?_"

Luthor gives Clark a scandalized look. "How else am I supposed to clean my eyebrows?"

"You _shampoo_ your _eyebrows?_" Clark asks, incredulously, finally sitting up, but Luthor just meets him with a challenging stare, as if daring him to say _anything_ else. But when Clark just rolls his eyes and moves to get up, Luthor pointedly averts his gaze.

Clark snorts. "So you're being shy _now? _Whatever, Lex. Am I going to have to go down to breakfast in the suit, or-"

"I'll have Mercy find something," Luthor breaks in hastily, though he's still looking away. "I suppose the paparazzi would have a field day with that, wouldn't they? Luthor and Superman, mortal enemies turned-"

"Turned what, Lex?" Clark prompts, though his voice is a little softer, and Luthor finally turns to look up at him. "What are we now? Enemies? Friends? Lo-"

"Don't," Luthor breaks in, harshly, his entire demeanor changing. "Don't Clark. We both know this shouldn't have happened."

"Then why did you let it?"

"Nothing can change between us," Luthor argues back, tersely, and he looks uncomfortable now. But Clark just shrugs, his expression just like Superman's disapproving, strict stare, only… kinder, somehow.

"But things have changed, Lex. You should have _thought_ of that before you dragged your mortal enemy to bed. I didn't do this just to fuck with your head."

Luthor flinches at that word; whether it was because it was coming from Clark's lips, or because of the memories it might have brought back from the night before.

He looks down. At the way his dressing gown pooled on the rumpled sheets, and up again—at how there's still the shadow of _Superman_ in Clark's features, and the blue of his eyes. How there's still a Clark-shaped impression in his bed and in his life.

"This is what we're going to do," Luthor says, slowly, and starts drafting the first version of a truce.


End file.
